


Memo to Deaths Mighty Advocate

by ShadowstarKanada



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Bad medical research, Canonical non-consensual drug use, Gen, Whump, serotonin syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-08
Updated: 2007-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:14:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23624437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowstarKanada/pseuds/ShadowstarKanada
Summary: Without consent, Wilson gives House anti-depressants. Without consent, House gives Wilson amphetamines. Drug interactions are unpleasant.
Kudos: 5





	Memo to Deaths Mighty Advocate

"So," asked House casually, after Wilson had finished his coffee, "how are you feeling?"

Wilson's brow descended. _Since when does House ask that kind of question?_ he wondered. "Fine. How are _you_ feeling, House?"

"Oh, the usual: Chipper, happy. You know, the opposite of depressed." House smiled. Wilson carefully did and said nothing. "How long have you been spiking my coffee with anti-depressants?" Wilson tried not to do anything, but he must have blinked, because House had his a-ha! face on.

Wilson released a breath and rubbed his head. He could already feel the headache starting. "Since you said I was boring. I knew you'd never take them on your own. You used to have fun tormenting me. And that smile says you're having fun again, so I was right."

"Fun," agreed House, nodding. "What have you been giving me?"

Wilson loosened his tie and reached a hand in to his desk to pull out some prescriptions. "A very light dosage of Paxil." He threw them down. "Let's not make this a bigger deal than it is..."

"It's a pretty big deal, Wilson." House still had that strange smile on his face.

Wilson's heart sped up. _House is about to do something... but what? Is he going to bring Cuddy in here and tell her I've been doping him? That'd be horrible, she'd never forgive me. I'd be lucky if she doesn't throw me out of the hospital and get my license revoked._ Wilson's eyes began to move quickly between House and the door. "What are you going to do?" he asked quietly.

"Already done," House replied, looking meaningfully at the coffee cup.

"What do you mean?" _God, it's getting hot in here. I'm probably blushing or something. Oh, God, what's he done this time?_ Wilson's eyes fell to his cup. "You... didn't drug me, did you?" Wilson went cold- or at least his thoughts did. _He_ was feeling hot. Really, _really_ hot.

House's smile didn't move for a moment. "Turnabout's fair play, Wilson, old buddy." House's voice was coming from behind him, even though the man himself was in front of him. Somehow, it didn't frighten him, though.

"Did the air conditioning break? It's so hot in here," said Wilson. He started unbuttoning his shirt.

"Wilson?" The smile was melting off of House's face. Really melting. Kind of like an ice cream cone. "Wilson?"

"I need a handkerchief," said Wilson, opening his desk drawers. "And an Advil... but that's probably not... What did you give me?" He gave up his search and pulled his shirt off, wiping his forehead with it.

His head was _pounding_. "Amphetamines," came the voice in his head. It sounded strangely worried and upset. It sounded like House, but he wasn't quite sure whether it was really House's voice.

"You poisoned me." Wilson's voice shook, but it wasn't from emotion. His hands felt like rocks, but they were shaking. "I think I'm going to pass out," he mused.

House's face loomed large in front of his own. "Wilson, I need to know what drugs you're taking," he said.

"Don't worry, I'll be okay. I'm just hot. The headache will go away."

"What are you _taking_?"

Wilson recoiled at the strength of House's angry outburst. "Just one cup of coffee a day... and Parnate," he said.

"You're taking a _fucking MAOI!_ " It was the last thing Wilson heard before the blood pounding a lullaby in his ears convinced him that now would be a _lovely_ time to avoid his headache and take a nap.

* * *

When Wilson woke, he was alone in a hospital room. The sun was shining in his eyes. He reached out and pushed the button to lift the bed up, then shifted uncomfortably. He didn't feel up to par, and couldn't quite remember why he was here, except that there was some kind of medication dripping through an IV line. Whatever it was, he knew he had to be stable, or House would have his fellows running tests or making sure the treatment was done right.

His head ached, his chest hurt, and he really wanted to see his charts, but there was some level of discomfort that whatever he was being drugged with wasn't touching. Wilson pulled his covers up, looking underneath them with distaste, and scrunched his face when he realized he'd been catheterized. He let out a breath as he tried not to curse House.

He considered simply removing it briefly, but decided against it. If he needed the damned thing, he wasn't going to want to suffer the embarrassment of having it reinserted later. He sighed against his incredibly scratchy throat and pressed the call button.

The nurse who came was bubbly, blonde, and not someone he recognized. She was talking about something in a high and squeaky voice. Wilson pursed his lips. This was why House hated nurses, and why Wilson hadn't cultivated much of a love for them. Maybe it was just a case of doctors making poor patients.

He was grateful when House stepped in and pushed the hapless nurse out. Wilson was glad and smiled his thanks at his friend, who shifted uncomfortably and picked up Wilson's chart. He took a seat next to Wilson with a thump of his cane. Wilson was glad to see him, even if House looked slightly guilty (though also a little pleased with himself) and didn't seem to want to look him in the eyes. Wilson smiled at him anyways.

"Why didn't you tell me about the anti-depressants?" he asked with a superior look on his face.

"Don't..." Wilson paused. It wasn't what he meant to say, he knew what he wanted to say, and that wasn't it. "Won't..." He bit his lip, and tried again. "Stupid! Uh, House, er... hospital... No..."

It wasn't right, and Wilson knew it wasn't right. Even if he hadn't known, the look on House's face would have told him immediately. House looked aghast, and Wilson felt like he'd swallowed a lump of ice. He hadn't understood a word House had said, and he couldn't even tell House. The beeping from the heart monitor was speeding up and Wilson fisted his left hand in the sheet and forced the panic down. "Damn it," he said, shaking his head, trying to keep his breathing level. He had to know what was wrong with him. "Give!" He snatched the chart from House's hands. His friend collected himself and put another drug into Wilson's IV.

_Seratonin syndrome. Hypertensive emergency._ The words stared back at him, and he was grateful that he could at least read them and make sense of them, though he felt like it was taking forever to understand them. _Cerebral hemorrhage. Ventricular tachycardia. Myocardial infarction._ Wilson's hand went to his chest without thought.

House grabbed his hand and smiled. "You understand what it says. That's good, that's _very_ good. We can cross off global aphasia."

The chart detailed treatment, courses of medication, and he looked to be recovering in an expected fashion, reacting well to the drugs. He'd been down for five days, if it could be trusted. Of course, if House was charting, it probably couldn't be. "Complications," read Wilson slowly, "Parnate and am... p... fetamines."

"Yes," said House from beside him. "I'm sorry," he said. The word touched him on a visceral level, and suddenly Wilson felt exhausted.

"I..." Wilson let the chart fall onto his chest. Some part of him felt it should have made some sort of hollow thud. "You..." He didn't know what to say. He wasn't sure he'd have known what to say even if he'd known how to say it. "No talk," he said, then, "damn it!" He bit his lip and looked to House for some sort of comfort.

House took the chart back, a sort of uncertainty in his actions but none in his voice as he began to quote statistics at Wilson. Wilson nodded at what seemed to be appropriate times, but didn't feel as comforted as he wished by the numbers.

"Hate, um... numbers," he said finally. Wilson felt like an idiot, though he knew he shouldn't. An image of the brain came to mind, and he could pinpoint all the places where his own brain was damaged. He lifted a hand and rubbed his forehead angrily. "Stupid."

"Wilson," House said finally, slowly. "Foreman is coming to give you a neurological exam, you understand all that?" He paused, and Wilson nodded. "Do you need anything?"

It took Wilson a moment to put a reply together, but when he did, he was almost proud at how smoothly it came out. "No. I, uh, will good. Thank." In the strange area of thought that existed beyond words or images, Wilson felt that this would bode well for speech therapy. It was strange to be unable to put words to his thoughts, but they were no less thought than the ones he'd had before.

House rocked himself back in the chair, looking like he really didn't think Wilson should be thanking him, looking guilty and angry and strangely hopeful all at once. He rubbed his face. "Aphasia often recedes in stroke patients. You might spontaneously get better," he said carefully, then paused.

Wilson nodded after a moment. "Better, uh, now," he said, then paused to struggle for a word. "Can... talk."

House nodded slightly. "You weren't waking up. I was starting to think I killed you," he said quietly.

Wilson closed his eyes. "Good... chart."

"Yeah. Do you remember what happened?" Wilson shook his head and opened his eyes to see House had folded his hands together and was resting his forehead on them. House took a long and rather shuddering breath. "You're going to be okay," he said finally.

Wilson gave him half a shrug as an answer and closed his eyes again. When he opened them, Foreman was in the room. He and House were talking quietly. Wilson strained to hear them, but they were too quiet in the corner. "Foreman," he said after a moment.

"Hi, Doctor Wilson," said Foreman, turning away from House. "How are you feeling?" His tone was even and constant. Wilson took a deep breath and tried to smile. "Okay. I'd like you to remember three things for me: a telephone, a piano and a cup of coffee. Can you say those?"

"Telephone, piano, cup coffee," said Wilson slowly. "Okay."

"Good. Do you know where you are?"

Wilson nodded. "Princeton... Princeton..." He knew there were other words, but he couldn't quite think of them. His hand clenched, so he closed his eyes and took a breath to calm himself. "Hospital," he finished finally, throwing the word out like a curse.

Foreman nodded and mumbled something. Wilson looked at him questioningly. "Do you know what day it is, Doctor Wilson?" Wilson paused, then shook his head. He had no idea. He wasn't sure what had happened to him. "Do you know what month it is?"

"Unconscious," he said. "Not... not... fair."

"Okay," Foreman nodded. "Can you count backwards from ten?"

Wilson nodded. "Ten. Um, nine..." He paused. What was next? "Eight." He knew the numbers. He wrote a seven in the air, but couldn't remember the word.

Foreman nodded slowly. "Can you spell the word 'house' backwards?"

"House?" With House standing in the corner of the room looking impatient and worried, he wanted to try to make a joke and lighten the atmosphere. His mind worked frantically to find the right connotation, and he almost laughed when he did. "E... l-l... o... h... s... a."

It took almost a second, and Foreman stared at him with an expression that said he was trying to hide disappointment, but suddenly House snorted. "I am not an asshole," he said.

Foreman paused and mouthed the letters, then smirked at House. "Trust one of you two to do that. _Actual_ patients with brain damage don't normally have a sense of humour." Foreman raised an eyebrow. "Are you faking this, Doctor Wilson?" Wilson shook his head, and Foreman looked at him suspiciously. "What were those three things I asked you to remember?"

"Piano... coffee cup... telephone."

Foreman nodded. "Good. Now, Doctor Wilson, what would you do if you saw a house on fire?"

House was still smiling, and Wilson was pleased. His mind searched for the right word for a moment. "Vicodin," he said, catching House's eye as he said it.

Foreman's frowned and turned on House. "He's _fine_. You two want to pull this on someone, get an intern. Or better yet, ask _Cameron_ to do it. She'd love to fawn over the two of you."

"Finish the exam, Foreman. He'll stop joking, _won't you_ , Wilson?"

Wilson nodded slowly and tried to think of the appropriate response while House and Foreman continued to talk- well, actually, yell- at each other. "Sorry," he said finally.

Foreman turned, anger in his eyes. "Close your eyes and put your right pinky finger in your left ear." Wilson nodded and did as he was told. "Open your eyes." Wilson took a deep breath and let his eyes open. Foreman was holding a piece of paper in front of him. "Read this, do what it says."

_Masturbate._ Wilson frowned and glared at Foreman. "No," he said and looked to House for help.

"Looks like your frontal lobe's fine," Foreman said.

House snatched the paper and read it. He gave Foreman a glare. "This isn't a joke," he said.

"What colour is _my_ lab coat, House's T-shirt, and the blanket?"

"White..." Wilson's forehead wrinkled. "Green-grey. Blue."

"Pretend you're drinking milk." Wilson started, but Foreman picked up the chart. "What's this?" Wilson shook his head and looked at House again, but his friend was staring at Foreman, his face darkening with each question. For his part, Foreman grabbed his paper back from House and shoved it in front of Wilson with a pen from his pocket. "Draw a clock at 4:30."

He turned. "All done," said Foreman. "Broca's aphasia, _if you want to keep pretending he has a problem at all_. Is there some hot speech therapist you want him referred to?"

House stared at Foreman for a moment. "No," said House. "Get out." When he was gone, and the sliding door closed on his heels, House sighed and took the seat next to Wilson again. Neither of them knew quite what to say, so House said something pointlessly trivial. "Some people just don't have a sense of humour."

Wilson nodded. "Remember, um, depression. Why... amph..."

House looked at Wilson for a moment. "Let's get you better first. We can figure out why later. Okay?"

Wilson nodded and closed his eyes. "Tired."

"Go to sleep. I'll find you a hot speech therapist."

* * *

"Out!" said Wilson in the loudest voice he could manage, throwing the practice picture as far away from him as he could. It was the third day of speech therapy, the third day of little improvement while looking at images that could have come straight out of a three year old's first reading books, of trying beyond where he'd thought his limits lay. Trying to tell stories, trying to ask and answer questions, trying and _trying_ and _failing_.

"James," said the therapist, her voice calm and soothing. "We have another twenty minutes. Your doctor won't be happy if I leave without-"

"I... don't," Wilson clenched his teeth as he looked for the right word. "Ugh. Care."

She smiled gently at Wilson. "Why do you want me to leave, James?"

"I, uh, tired. Too..." Wilson wanted to cry his frustration, just wanted her to go away and have House give him more drugs so he could sleep. If he could only explain what he wanted, if he could only make her go away...

This was what it was like for him now. He wasn't in control of himself or his emotions. One minute, he wanted to kill whoever was in front of him, to strangle them and make them all run away, and the next he was overwhelmed by despair, unable to sustain his anger.

"I want seeing..." That was wrong, but what was _right_? "No, no, uh... see House. You, no."

The therapist nodded at him, her smile never wavering. "I'd like you to try _asking_ me about House."

"No. More, no more..." Wilson took a deep breath and looked at her imploringly, but his tired and sad expression didn't seem to work on women as well as it had before. Or maybe he'd just been imagining it before. "Questions are... uh, no easy. Hard."

"I know, James. I want you to try."

He sighed. "House... where... no, no, no where... office is where. No here is where. Why no here is House, uh... where."

"Doctor House has a patient with a complicated case."

Wilson shook his head. "No. Patient..." He rubbed his head. "Oh, boring. Yesterday and... cancer." He paused. "See chart. Easy."

"Do you know what kind of cancer the patient has?"

"Yes, I..." Wilson paused. He could see it again, that mental picture from an anatomy text book; he could see exactly where the cancer was located. "Can't..." Wrong and wrong again. Wilson moaned. "Said it." He shook his head. "When... House... room, I room."

"Soon, James." She pulled out another picture, but she didn't hand it to him this time. "Tell me about this picture."

"No." Wilson closed his eyes. "No... fixing." He turned his head away and let his eyes open again. "Please. We... speak... no, uh, talk House. To?" He paused and tried to repeat the words to himself. "Talk House to... yes. No?"

"If you tell me about this picture," she tried again, "I will ask House to come."

Wilson sighed and turned, looking between his therapist and the picture. "Girl... little, and uh... friend. She, uh... jumps. Rope. Bad. Not good jump. Land rope." He sighed again. "Okay. Done. House now." The woman looked at her watch. Wilson frowned and concentrated. "Did you lie?" he asked.

"I'll see if I can get him to come," she said after a moment, and walked out to talk to the on-duty nurses.

Wilson took a deep breath as she left. He was feeling tears coming up behind him. He wanted back on his anti-depressants, but he knew it was completely pointless to ask for it while they were still treating him for all the problems he had.

He still hadn't gotten a straight answer from House about what had happened to him, and no one else seemed willing to discuss it either- not that they'd had much chance. House had been guarding him, more or less, from the Florence Nightingale nurses. He'd insisted that they leave him alone, left orders with the head nurse to keep out anyone who was likely to "tire Wilson out or try to become the proud recipient of a fourth alimony check."

He closed his eyes and wondered when House would arrive, wondered wordlessly if House would bring him anything, or if House would be at all likely to listen to a plea for the speech therapy to stop. Wilson suspected the answer would be no- he'd browbeaten House about physical therapy a good deal, and House was unlikely to let this go. Especially since this was something more important than just a leg.

He heard the door slide open, and then someone sat down in the chair beside him. He hadn't heard the sound of House's cane or the man's uneven gait, but he opened his eyes, hoping to see House regardless.

"Cameron," he said softly.

She gave him a strained smile. "Hi, Doctor Wilson. House asked me to come down and sit with you until he could." Wilson nodded slowly. "You... Are you faking it? Because, you know, House is taking this pretty hard."

"No," said Wilson. "No faking." He bit his lip. "House okay?"

"He's taking more Vicodin than usual. You..." Cameron looked away for a moment, but when she turned back, her eyes were full of righteous anger. "How could you have done this? House _cares_ about you," she said. "Maybe he's not good at showing it, but, _really_. Suicide isn't an answer, it doesn't solve _anything_."

Wilson stared at her for a moment as the pieces fell together in his head. It made sense. The drug interaction... he'd have known how much to take, could have calculated how much. And then, House must have walked in on him, just after he'd done it. He must have watched Wilson collapse. It must have damn near killed House to see it. Wilson still wasn't sure why he'd done it, but it was just like him to fail at something so important. He'd given himself brain damage. If he couldn't work again, if he could never speak to House, anything he couldn't do in the future would be traced back to one stupid... _stupid_ failure.

Wilson hadn't thought he was so sick. His eyes closed and he forced himself to swallow the lump in his throat. He'd tried to kill himself, and House was protecting him.

Wilson wanted to tell Cameron that he hadn't meant it, that he obviously hadn't known what he was doing, and that she should take care of House because he was obviously unfit to do so, but he didn't have words to do it. "I no... know," he said. "Can... can no... remember."

Why wasn't he strapped to the bed? Or were stroke patients considered incapable of second attempts these days?

"He's covering for you, _of course_." Cameron shook her head. "You should be thanking him for that. You'd be in the psych ward if it weren't for him."

"No," said Wilson. "Straps. Need..." He stopped and motioned at the medication still flowing into him via the IV lines.

She nodded shortly. "Do you need more pain meds? Is that why you wanted him to come down here?"

"No." His hand went to the IV line, and his fingers played with it absently. "Lonely," he said, and the one word seemed to make Cameron's anger fade. "Hate, uh, therapy." Now her face turned condescending and skeptical. Wilson shook his head. "House... Um, patient is not cancer?"

She looked taken aback for a moment. "No. We think it's an infection. House told you about our patient?"

Wilson gave her a laugh. "House consult I." Wilson's face fell again. "Consulting? No..." Cameron shifted uncomfortably. "Cameron. You... care House."

She looked at Wilson, her face confused. "Yes," she said slowly. "Of course I care about him."

"No, no. You, you... _take_ care House. Me, I... no can. Vicodin, lots. He... watch, no. Not watch, no, no." He let out another frustrated breath. "I no can understand. You..."

"You... want me to take care of House," said Cameron slowly, piecing together Wilson's words into sentences. "And make sure he doesn't take too much Vicodin. You don't think he monitors himself." Wilson nodded in relief, but Cameron just shook her head. "He takes Vicodin because he's in _pain_ , and he monitors himself all the time, Doctor Wilson."

Wilson turned away. She didn't understand as much as she thought she did.

"I'll watch him until you're better," she said, petulantly. "But you have to promise not to do this again." Wilson nodded. "Have you and House talked about it yet?"

Wilson shook his head. "No. Hard talk important... no, no, no!"

"I get it," said Cameron. She lay a hand on Wilson's, compassion on her face. "I think he'd get it, too."

The door slid open while their hands were still touching. "I know, I know, he's all damaged now, but Allison Wilson just doesn't _sound_ right," said House. Cameron snatched her hand away. "Chase and Foreman need help with the tests. Go."

Cameron nodded and gave Wilson a stern look, then left the room.

House sat down in her place. "I bet she gave you some really cool gossip that you can't tell me thanks to the brain damage," said House. Wilson looked away. "Hey, don't take it personally. I didn't mean it as an insult." House paused a moment while Wilson turned back and looked at him doubtfully. "Well, I kind of did, but I wasn't trying to be _mean_ about it."

Wilson smiled carefully. "Cameron and, uh, you... no, I... you lying."

"Lying?" House paused. "No. I'm not lying about anything."

Wilson frowned. "Me? Um, uh... Kill... me."

House sat back in the chair and tapped his cane slowly. "Do you remember what happened? Is that it?"

"No." Wilson pulled his hand off of the bed and placed it carefully on House's leg, the only thing he could get to without some serious straining. "Cameron said."

House picked up Wilson's hand and put it back on the bed. "Cameron doesn't have a _clue_ about what happened." He got up and paced around Wilson's bed, then looked him in the eye. "No one knows what happened, Wilson, so don't listen to whatever it is they tell you. I'm not going to tell anyone except for you. And that's not happening until we're sure you're not getting it back on your own. Okay?"

Wilson nodded. "Okay." He was grateful that House wasn't going to tell anyone in so many words. Let them gossip. So long as they didn't know the truth, he wouldn't be sent off to the psych ward. Except that... that was where he belonged, wasn't it. "When, uh, does sure?"

House scratched his head. "Pressure's not as relieved as it should be. It's probably why you're still having trouble. People with hemorrhagic strokes get better all the time." He picked up Wilson's chart. "MAOI should be clearing your system sometime this week, so we can start treating you with drugs. If the speech therapy isn't picking up by then, I want to put you on a low dose of amphetamines." Wilson bit his lip. "And no _drug interactions_ this time," muttered House.

Wilson nodded.

"What? Nothing to say?"

Wilson shrugged.

House sat back down in the chair. "I want you to get better Wilson. You want to get better too." Wilson nodded, his eyebrows raised. "Then you need to keep trying to talk."

Wilson shook his head, just a little. "Talk hard," he said quietly. "Slow. Not, uh... um, clear? Yes, clear."

"Yeah, I know." House pursed his lips and looked at the ceiling, glancing at Wilson out of the corner of his eye. "Why were you on the MAOI?"

He owed it to House, didn't he? He'd tried to kill himself and House had saved his life. Besides, how often did House actually want to know what was going on in Wilson's life? The only problem was, of course, "I are slow. Take long, uh, minutes. No, uh, time. You, uh, are patient. No... have. Yes, have patient."

House shrugged. "That's why I have fellows to do the grunt work. I've got some time."

Wilson looked away for a moment, then nodded. "Okay."

* * *

Wilson wished he could get up, pace around the room, and hide his face against the wall, but he was instead stuck in a bed with an IV drip and his best friend waiting for an explanation. "Parnate... is soon, no, lately. I, uh, more first." House raised his eyebrows. "Effexor, Cymbalta, Adapin. And, um, Norset. Hm... Welbutrin."

"Six different types?" House asked, looking at Wilson with confusion. "How long have you been hiding this?"

"Julie, before. Uh, divorce. And, uh... six more." He shook his head and counted to eight on his fingers. "Chart. Um, desk. Okay?"

"You have your old scrips in your desk." Wilson nodded. "Okay. So, why'd you decide chemicals were the way to make you all happy?"

"Julie, she... _you_... oh, _damn it_. I..." His eyes were filling with tears, and those tears began to spill down his face before he could stop them. He turned his face away from House and wiped at them angrily. "No- _should_ cry. Hate... this."

"I know." House patted Wilson's shoulder awkwardly.

It was strange how he remembered so many of the names of drugs when he couldn't manage a full sentence, but Wilson wasn't going to complain about the few things he did know. "Ativan?" he asked.

House took a loud breath, considered everything, then let the breath out. "It would put you to sleep. I want you to keep talking, Wilson."

"Figures." Wilson took his own shuddering breath and wiped his eyes again. "Before divorce. Months. Three?" He paused and counted to four on his fingers.

"Four," prompted House.

"Four." Wilson nodded. "One,... three, no... four..." he tried. He shook his head.

House grunted. "So. It's been over a year since then," House observed quietly. "Your depression wasn't over your wife."

Wilson sighed. "No. Yes." He put his arm over his face. "Complicate. Julie, and you, and, uh, Julie. Me. Um, and you." He shook his head. "Um, fault." He took a deep breath and shook his head again. "No, no." Wilson closed his mouth.

This wasn't going to work. He knew what he wanted to say- and what was worse, he knew what he _didn't_ want to say, and this was one of the topics he'd wished he'd never have to say a word about. He wouldn't have told this to House if he'd been well. He wouldn't have told him about any of his medicines, or any of his treatments, or any of the things he'd done, but now, Wilson felt as though he had no choice.

"It was my fault?" asked House. Wilson shook his head. "Your fault."

Wilson nodded slowly. He didn't want to talk about this, and who was he kidding? House didn't want to either. And in Wilson's state, House was going to do most of the work. Neither of them wanted to do this. "Tired," he said.

"Oh, no. You don't get off the hook that easy." Wilson's forehead knotted and he looked questioningly at House. "Not literal enough, huh?" House frowned. "I don't care how tired you are. We're not done talking."

Wilson shrugged. He was done for today. "Fine. No, uh, stop." House nodded as if it were a victory. "Uh, you."

House frowned. "I hate when you're all passive-aggressive on me," he said.

"I hate you... uh, when... and..." He sighed. This wasn't House's fault. _None of this_ was House's fault. "Sorry," he said quietly. "Later, okay?" House shook his head and popped a Vicodin. Wilson's left hand went to the IV line and he played with it for a moment, considering again how he'd gotten here. He took a deep breath. "Now okay," he said, his voice even quieter than before.

"Julie, me. Bad and... fight. Yell. You and... hate. Angry. Fight. Need, I, and uh... help and..." He paused and looked away. "And hit."

"She hit you?" asked House softly. He looked like he was trying to conceal horror and compassion as he lay a hand on Wilson's shoulder. Wilson shook his hand away, and House's face turned to disappointment and anger. "You hit _her_." Wilson took a deep, shuddering breath, and House frowned. "No," he said quietly, "I don't believe that. You don't have it in you."

Wilson shook his head. "No," he whispered, ashamed. He turned a hand into a fist and put it in front of him, then moved as if to hit it with his other hand. He wasn't coordinated enough to do what he'd intended, however, and ended up pulling the IV from his arm, and hitting the palms of his hands together.

"Idiot," said House lightly, reaching over Wilson and reinserting the needle. "You still need these." Wilson nodded slightly. "Besides, that didn't tell me anything. What, you were so clumsy you fell over instead of hitting her?"

Wilson smiled unhappily and shook his head. "Stopped. Almost."

"You almost stopped, or you almost hit her?"

Wilson shook his hand, two fingers in the air. "Wanted, um, hit. Crazy."

"You stopped, Wilson. That's... that's important."

Wilson shook his head violently. " _Wanted_ , House. _Wanted_." Wilson bit his lip to stop it from trembling, but he couldn't stop the tears, so he turned his head. "Hitchcock and tears," he whispered. "Frenzy. Rusk." He patted at his chest. "No tie."

"You're not a maniac," said House. "You're not a murderer, you're not a rapist, you're not the bad guy in a Hitchcock movie. You're James Wilson, oncologist. Knight in shining armor and all that bullshit you use on women."

Wilson shook his head angrily. House just didn't get it. "Liar," he said, wiping his eyes. "Break... break, um... all. Hurt. Tell... hit..." He let out a strangled laugh. " _Same_."

"Not really," said House. "Telling your wife about your cheating, and hitting a woman... It's not the same at all."

"Doctor too," he said. "Medicine. Better, no."

"Your psychiatrist- therapist?" Wilson waved one finger in the air. "He told you all this already, then gave you anti-depressants, but you didn't feel any better." Wilson nodded. House let out a breath as he pieced it all together. "So, you almost hit your wife. You were... afraid? No, horrified that you'd lose control of yourself and follow through on it. That triggered it, and it got worse as time went by, and she left you."

"Try flowers. Chocolate. Um, panties." Wilson smiled sadly. "Divorce, uh... good. Good, um... _choice_."

"And then you moved in with me," mused House. "How did you keep the anti-depressants from me? And the therapy? I was paying attention."

Wilson shook his head with an unhappy smile. "Yeah," he said. "Hard. Uh, you..." He stopped and searched for the word. "Stoop!"

"I was trying to get you to stand up for yourself!" House said loudly. "You were acting like you'd lost the love of your life, and for a man on the third love of his life-"

"No! Act... act... ugh! No act! Hit! And, and, and..." Wilson stared at House, breathing heavily.

"So what, now you think you're going to hurt someone the next time you do something? Because you _didn't_ hit your ex-wife? Who probably deserved it-"

"No. No. She..." He sat up and swung his legs off of the bed. House made some protesting noises behind him, but Wilson ignored them and leaned on the metal IV stand as he stood and stumbled to the wall. "Hurt," he said softly.

"She cheated on _you_ , Wilson. She hurt you."

Wilson shook his head. "No," he said, as sharply as he could. "Me. _Me_! Hit. _Want_."

"But you _didn't_ ," insisted House. "And that's the difference."

Wilson turned. "Difference? Me and...?"

"The difference between _you_ and a man who beats his wife." Wilson nodded, even though he'd heard it before. He felt so lightheaded just now. "Get back in the bed," said House. "We have to put the monitors back on you or the nurses are going to come to see if you've arrested."

Wilson walked back unsteadily and sat on the bed for a moment. "You and cane. And Grace, and, uh..."

"Well, you didn't hit Grace, right?" asked House, pressing on Wilson's shoulder to make him lie down. It really wasn't a question, but Wilson nodded.

"Grace, uh, medicine. No, um... fight. No, uh, hit and, um, push and..."

House's eyes narrowed. "Julie _pushed_ you." Wilson shook his head, but House nodded as though it was a confirmation. "She hit you. You're embarrassed. You don't want to admit it."

"No," said Wilson in a small, controlled voice. He didn't want to admit it because it hadn't happened. "Vicodin," said Wilson. "Angry... uh, you and Grace, uh... medicine. Vicodin. Oxycontin."

"Paxil?" House challenged.

Wilson paused. There was something there, something just out of reach. He could just about feel it, on the edges of the horizon... He reached for it, and it slipped, but he was determined. He wanted that memory. He wanted-

And there it was. The scene played out in front of him. He hadn't tried to kill himself. House had tried to kill him. The words didn't all make sense in his head, but it was clear to him what the meaning had to be. House had _poisoned_ him. House had to have known about the Parnate- he'd known about the Paxil, hadn't he? How could he not have known? House knew... everything! He _always_ knew everything.

House had tried to kill him. It would be depressing if it weren't so... so... House had tried to _kill_ him! What had Wilson done but give House something to stop him from being depressed? What had Wilson done that was so horrible that he deserved to be _killed_?

His hand clenched, and for one brief moment, he wanted nothing more than to throw a punch. Just _one_ , just _one_ to prove to House that he hadn't been beaten, that you couldn't try to kill someone and get away with it, that you just couldn't give someone brain damage and expect to walk away without any consequences.

And then he remembered that this was his best friend. This was House.

He'd probably just assumed Wilson was on the Paxil, too- if he'd even connected the dots to Wilson being depressed at all- and if Wilson hadn't been taking a _different_ drug, if he hadn't insisted on trying an MAOI when the other far less dangerous classes of anti-depressants had failed, the _worst_ thing probably would have been the withdrawal the next day. House hadn't tried to kill him: he'd just made an awful assumption.

House wouldn't- _couldn't_ try to kill him: it was against everything House was. And they were friends. This was _House_ , for God's sake.

"Crazy," he said. He curled into as tight a ball as he could and turned himself away from House, then plugged his ears and shook. House said his name a few times, but eventually, Wilson could feel a light sedative's gentle seduction uncurling him and sending him to sleep.

* * *

"Intracranial pressure is down significantly," said Chase, marking up Wilson's chart. "And you've been on the amphetamines for the aphasia for two days now. It should be helping you."

Wilson nodded slightly. It was helping. He hadn't misunderstood a passive voice sentence today, and with a little bit of concentration, he could get understandable sentences out. It was an improvement. "Anti-depressant?" he asked quietly.

"We started you on Rameron shortly after House saw you. Also, the amphetamines are an indicated treatment for some forms of treatment-resistant depression. MAOIs are much more extreme, and House thinks this will be a better treatment." Chase took a seat next to Wilson, who was sitting up in the bed with the latest baseball stats in his lap. "Have you had any suicidal thoughts, Dr. Wilson?" Wilson pursed his lips and shook his head. "How _are_ you feeling?"

Wilson looked down at the book. He felt as though all his dirty laundry had been passed out through the hospital. He felt as though someone had gone and opened up all the closet doors, dragging out all sorts of half-decomposed corpses. He felt as lonely and despondent as ever, although he hadn't had the urge to hit anyone since House. But he didn't say any of that. "Better," he said instead, and turned a page as if he cared to read it.

"Has House-"

"No," said Wilson quickly. He didn't want to talk about House. Besides that, even the short grammatical sentences he was capable of now were draining, and trying to make too many gave Wilson headaches.

Chase was not easily dissuaded. "Has he been here to talk to you?"

"No," Wilson repeated. He wasn't going to elaborate. House hadn't been back since Wilson remembered what had happened, and Wilson wasn't entirely sure he wanted his so-called friend to visit. There was nothing much for them to say.

"He's not taking any Vicodin." Wilson turned his head and looked sharply at Chase. "He _says_ he's taking it, but he's going through withdrawal."

Wilson shook his head and closed his book. "Why?" he asked. He didn't exactly believe Chase, but he wanted to get the young man's motivation. House would never refuse his Vicodin for guilt, but he certainly wasn't beyond putting his fellows up to some insane scheme that only _he_ would really understand.

"I was hoping you would tell me. He doesn't work well when he's in pain," said Chase. His hand moved to rub his chin in what looked to be an unconscious manner. In reality, it was probably a calculated and manufactured move: Wilson had proven himself vulnerable to that sort of manipulation, especially when it came to House's actions.

After a while, Wilson shrugged. He didn't care. And if he did, it really wasn't any of Chase's business.

"If I could get him here," said Chase, "would you talk to him?" Wilson shook his head and shrugged, the smile on his face saying that Chase couldn't get House down here to talk if there were strippers with every illegal drug known to man waiting for him. Chase nodded shortly, then let out a breath. "Okay. Look. I know he gave you the amphetamines. We saw him sign for them, and your charts account for what he got that morning. You _know_ he wasn't trying to hurt you. Right?"

Wilson stared at Chase with his mouth open for a little while before he broke down and laughed. Trust the longest lasting of House's fellows to have noticed not just that House _was_ upset, but also _why_ he was... it was in Chase's best interests to notice the variable mood of his boss, after all, and he was the least likely to believe House's standard bullshit. "Yes," he agreed.

Chase smiled politely and crossed his arms. "I'm not asking you to forgive him," he said. "I'm just asking you to talk to him. You're the only one he listens to."

Wilson let out a bitter, barking laugh at that.

"He _listens_ to you," insisted Chase. "I didn't say he does what you tell him to do all the time. I only said he _listens_. He needs to take his meds, and you can convince him to do it."

Wilson sighed. As much as Wilson felt sympathy for House's fellows, having to deal with the man on a professional basis all the time, this really wasn't any of Chase's business. He wished House's fellows weren't so damned _nosy_ , even if he understood the reasoning behind it all. There was nothing he could do about that, though, so instead he grabbed the chart out of Chase's hands and took a look at it.

His vitals were within acceptable ranges. The swelling in his brain was down to a passable level, and he'd recovered his balance. His medications no longer needed to be administered intravenously. There was no medical reason for him to be hospitalized, and he could continue treatment on an outpatient basis. "Discharge me," said Wilson.

Chase took back the chart and shook his head. "You're not well enough to go back to living in a hotel."

Wilson ground his teeth. Had House told them everything? Why were his living arrangements hospital gossip? He took a deep, calming breath and forcibly remembered that House liked to send his fellows on wild goose chases through patients' homes, whether or not those patients were friends. Going through Wilson's _home_ probably included his hotel room _and_ his office, and possibly the post office box he'd been using for taxes and lawyers' correspondences.

Well, a hotel wasn't his only option. He had family. He opened his mouth to tell Chase about the oversight when he suddenly realized that they weren't here. There was only one explanation. "House," he said, uncertain whether it was anger or frustration that prompted the verbalization. House could have called one of them. Cuddy could have, too, but it was more likely House had told her _he_ was going to do it.

Chase simply sat next to Wilson, confusion on his face. After a while, Wilson took pity on him. "Tell him or visit," he said slowly. Chase smiled. "Tell him... that... I want... to be, um, discharge."

"Okay," said Chase, and he left, presumably to get House.

Half an hour later, Wilson turned back to his book. Hours later, he ate his hospital dinner and took the pills the nurse brought for him.

The sun had long since set by the time House came into Wilson's room. Wilson had the television on, playing some crude show from the Fox network. There were explosions, and curses, and that was all Wilson really wanted at the moment.

House took the seat next to Wilson's bed and stared up at the television. Wilson took the opportunity to examine his friend out of the corner of his eye. His hand was shaking slightly and he was sweating. Wilson couldn't seem to make himself feel bad for his friend. He hoped that the feeling of satisfaction he was enjoying at his friend's discomfort was an effect of the amphetamines, but suspected it was not.

A particularly loud explosion sounded, and then the commercials started, trying to sell them on some hair regrowth treatment. Wilson pressed the mute button on the remote, but didn't make a move to speak.

"Chase says you want to be released," said House when the next advertisement (this time, about a toothbrush) came on. Wilson nodded but didn't say anything. He wasn't quite sure he trusted himself to speak. "You shouldn't go back to the hotel," House said quietly. "You should come home with me."

Wilson nodded slightly. "You... feel guilty," he replied.

House shook his head, then apparently reconsidered the gesture. "So what if I do?"

Wilson turned his head to look at House. "You are an mess." He licked his lips. "Take your Vicodin."

"I'm... waiting for you to prescribe it for me again. Seemed like a bad idea to forge your name again."

Wilson stared at House for a moment. He looked bad, sure, but not _that_ bad. He could have taken medication, of course, to relieve the symptoms of staying off the Vicodin, but why would he do that? House liked to put his suffering on display just to shock people. And, he reminded himself, even if House felt guilty for nearly killing Wilson, there was no way he'd voluntarily stop taking his medicine. "You... _took_... your Vicodin. This is... _from_ a Paxil."

"Yeah," agreed House with a nod. "Sudden withdrawal from the Paxil. Sure, it's not as bad as coming down off of Vicodin, but it's no picnic, either." Unspoken was the fact that House wouldn't get another prescription if he'd have to talk to someone and go through a psychiatric workup. "Thanks, Wilson."

The commercials ended and Wilson turned the sound up again with a huff. At least he knew House wasn't feeling guilty enough to do anything stupid. Other than get off of the anti-depressant, of course, but Wilson hadn't expected that would stick.

They sat watching the show for a while in silence. "I have HBO," said House loudly, during a lull in the action. " _And_ I have TiVo. Your hotel room has... porn on demand. I know it's a... _hard_ choice, but-"

"Hotel rooms have... lying... things... _beds_ ," said Wilson, then shook his head and motioned up at the screen. "Show's on."

"If you insist on a hotel room, you'll be leaving against medical advice." Wilson ignored him. "Leaving AMA means there's a twenty percent chance that you'll be back in here in fifteen days, versus one percent if you come back with me."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "No good statistics," he muttered.

"They're true," insisted House. Wilson shrugged. "Fine. Destroy your health. Go to a hotel where you can rot your brain with television and not say a word to anyone until the disability checks run out."

"I could live to my parents."

"No, you can't," House said, looking annoyed and superior. "If you could live with your parents, you wouldn't have come to crash at my place after Julie." Wilson had to admit, if only to himself, that House had a point. "We both know that you're a workaholic; you're going to be back trying to manage your department within the week. My place is close to the hospital, and you'll be able to catch a ride in with me."

"Yes," said Wilson, rolling his eyes. "I can ride... from... your _motorcycle_."

"I have several cars." He smiled manipulatively. "Remember that nice one from the mobsters? We can take that to work _every day_."

Wilson raised an eyebrow. He knew that House liked keeping that one safe, away from other cars that could damage it in parking lots. That pretty red car, it was one of the big guns. Wilson paused and watched the television for a while, not answering until the credits started rolling. He didn't really want to win this argument. Sure, there was the problem of not having a bed, but the sofa had been more than comfortable for quite some time when he'd last lived with House. And House was a pain to live with in many ways, but he was right about the statistics: people who lived alone were less likely to recover from major medical issues like strokes. It wasn't as though living alone had been improving his depression, either.

"You almost... killed me," said Wilson quietly.

"If I'd been trying, you'd be dead," replied House with an awkward smile. Wilson looked away. "You dosed _me_ , too. It's not like I'm the only one."

"No more dosing," Wilson said.

"I'm your doctor, I have to dose you." Wilson shook his head nervously. "I won't give you anything you don't know about," he added after a moment's silence, "as long as that rule applies to you, too." House glared while Wilson nodded slowly. That was fair. "Okay," said House.

"Okay," repeated Wilson. He glanced at the television. Really, these tiny things in the patients' rooms sucked. "Can we go... home, now?"

House nodded. "I'll get some discharge papers done." Wilson smiled weakly at him. "Are you going to be... okay?" asked House.

Of course not. Wilson had almost died. He had brain damage. He couldn't string five words together without pausing. Wilson had wanted to _hit_ House, really hit him hard. He hadn't been in control of himself. He still wasn't sure why he hadn't his his friend, or how he'd stopped himself. How in the world could he ever be okay?

But as they looked at each other, Wilson saw through House and the layer of jaded indifference he liked to show the world. Wilson felt privileged to see through to the core of his friend. House didn't like to show his emotions to anyone, but it was the concern and trust and guilt underneath the pretense that made everything okay, even when everything seemed wrong. Maybe he wasn't okay _now_ , but House was with him. House wouldn't let him be destroyed by this.

So Wilson smiled. "Yeah."


End file.
